Descriptive Essay (Bryanna Jones)

“ are you trying to say my name?” she laughed.

“I-i-i j-just want-t-ted to ask you someth-th-thing.”

“Wh-wh-wh-what do you wa-wa-wa-want” she impersonated, horribly.

I just wanted to ask what she got for question 1. Now I didn’t even want to ask the question because all the students in Ms. Bates 3rd classroom were laughing hysterically. I looked down in disbelief and began to play with my khaki pleated skirt under the desk. I didn’t understand why my words would not come out. It was as if they were ready to run out my mouth but something was tugging them back in while they were still reaching for my lips.

“Bryanna. Are you done fooling around.” Ms. Bates asked. As she pushed her thin, curly, red bangs out her pale face. I nodded my head yes because I didn't want to humiliate myself any more. My classmates laughed because they thought my speech was a joke, I did too.

It was so hard to talk fluently, and it still is. I do not think anyone understands how frustrating it is trying to get your idea across, that should have taken 10 seconds, but it ends up being three minutes because the words are playing a quick game of tug of war with your tongue. Maybe I am special, but then again there is nothing special about a stutterer except knowing how to remix a sentence without even trying.

Ms. Bates called me to read a paragraph from the passage in the thick, yellow, scholastic book. I quickly gathered myself, and then begin.

“Puf-f-f-ins,”please do not start, I thought. Therefore, I took another deep breath and began again. “Puffins are three species of alcid,” good keep it going I thought.

“Ok, class what do think and aclid is” She interrupted. She is going to trigger my...”Bryanna please continue.”

I looked up at the dark purple banner that exclaimed “Read” it was as if everyone wanted to hear me stutter. Instead of reading, I raised my hand. “Ms.Bates can I go to the bathroom?” I asked, but I already foreshadowed that she was going to give me a resound “no!”

It was so hard to talk fluently, and it still is. I do not think anyone understands how frustrating it is trying to get your idea across, that should have taken 10 seconds, but it ends up being three minutes because the words are playing a quick game of tug of war with your tongue. Maybe I am special, but then again there is nothing special about a stutterer except knowing how to remix a sentence without even trying.

Ms. Bates called me to read a paragraph from the passage in the thick, yellow, scholastic book. I quickly gathered myself, and then begin.

“Puf-f-f-ins,”please do not start, I thought. Therefore, I took another deep breath and began again. “Puffins are three species of alcid,” good keep it going I thought.

“Ok, class what do think and aclid is” She interrupted. She is going to trigger my...”Bryanna please continue.”

I looked up at the dark purple banner that exclaimed “Read” it was as if everyone wanted to hear me stutter. Instead of reading, I raised my hand. “Ms.Bates can I go to the bathroom?” I asked, but I already foreshadowed that she was going to give me a resound “no!”

“Make it quick Bryanna, we’re going to discuss some things that might be on the reading test.” I quickly walked out of the classroom down the hall into the 3 stalled bathroom with Pepto-Bismol tiled walls. Then I opened my mouth wide in front of the mirror to see if there was anything that could indicate my stuttering episodes, there was nothing. My uvula was still hanging freely from the roof of my mouth; my tongue still cradled between teeth; my tonsils still looked like two big boulders creating a path for my food to travel. I did not understand why my words feel like they are fighting to escape the captivities of my orifice. As I walked leisurely to class I practiced some words without tripping over them.

“Ms. Bates.J- Jalisa, Jalisa.Yes.No.” I toke a deep breath between each word, which helped.

“Welcome back to class Bryanna, you took to long in the bathroom.” She said as her black irises and pupils followed me to my seat in her purple mess of a classroom. “Are you ready to read Ms. Jones?”

“Yes,” I said ready to prove to all of peers that I could read clearly. “Which pa-pa-pa-page are we on?”

“285, second paragraph.” The whole class turned to see my next move, which was turning from the title page to the text page. “Everyone know where we are?” she said looking at everyone’s book from the front of the class. “You can begin.”

“Puffins can vary in facial characteristic, but still remain the same color.” I said it. There was not a word trip. As I continued to read I concentrated on trying not to stutter that I forgot how to say simple word like “features” and “family”, they became more like “fatures” and “femelie”, but anything was better than stuttering. When I was finished, Ms. Bates had gotten tired of semi-illiterate third graders reading, so she read the rest herself. While she read, I placed my head in my hands and listened. I did not want read in my head because I sometimes stutter there too. I did not want to follow along because if I tripped on a word I would stay there until I figured it out, then I will be lost in the pages. Therefore, I sat in the navy blue metal chair and kept my eyes on Ms. Bates lips as she read, trying to decipher how she spoke without flaw. Her coffee stained teeth threw me off almost every other sentence; I stopped gazing and looked down at my own book. I read along slowly and steadily, allowing my stuttering to create a rhythm of its own.